


Breathe

by aliaholic



Category: DCU, Young Justice (Cartoon), Young Justice - All Media Types
Genre: Death, M/M, Not very graphic but
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-19
Updated: 2015-09-19
Packaged: 2018-04-21 13:00:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 433
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4830011
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aliaholic/pseuds/aliaholic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Hey. Look at me - just breathe, okay?”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Breathe

**Author's Note:**

> Yes hello, my second birdflash fic, based on a tumblr prompt-ish (?), which I have decided to post on here. My tumblr is 3alo.tumblr.com if you wanna, you know, check me out. Enjoy!

_Steady your heartbeat._

Nightwing repeats those words to himself, over and over again. He can almost see them dancing across the sky, golden and bright, and yet, he can’t follow them. Can’t follow the years of training seared into the back of his mind. 

 _Slow your breathing._  

He tries to get himself together, tries to ignore the fact that it’s two in the morning and they’re surrounded by rubble. Wills himself to see those blue fucking stripes instead of the red on his fingertips. 

_Calm yourself._

He remembers Bruce’s words before getting here. Telling him to be careful. Warning him that the Joker was on a shooting rampage and Harley was blowing up whatever she could get her hands on. Sending the Team in because the League was off-world. Because the League was always off-world.

And now he’s sitting on the ground, hands trembling, jaw clamped shut in an attempt to stay quiet. He wishes that the hands of the body in front of him would tremble. That they would do  _anything_. He’s vaguely aware of Artemis trying to pull him away, his body acting on its own as he yells at her to back off, pulling the boy onto his lap and curling around him. 

The blood seeping out of his chest ends up on Dick’s uniform, on his hands, in his hair. It’s everywhere. Red and angry and demanding. 

_Why didn’t you save me?_

He feels another hand on his shoulder, and his muscles tighten. 

“Nightwing!”

A familiar voice. Wally. 

“Let go, babe. It’s okay,” he says. 

But it’s not. Not okay. It’s not okay that this little boy has a bullet through his chest. It’s not okay that he’s got jet-black hair and strong eyebrows and a little button nose. 

“It’s not okay, not okay,” he mumbles. 

Wally sits directly in front of him, both hands on his shoulders. Dick lets out a sob and feels his entire frame convulse, his hold tightening on the boy. 

“Dick,” he whispers, “Damian’s at home. With Alfred. Baking.” 

Dick closes his eyes and loosens his grip, sighing shakily. 

“Hey. Look at me - just breathe, okay?”

And that’s all it takes. He looks at Wally and his ridiculous green eyes, and he  _breathes._  And Wally sits with him, breathes with him, will stay with him if it takes hours. If it takes forever. 

Eventually Dick lets go of the boy, and makes a mental note to attend his funeral. 

“Thanks, Wally.”

Wally smiles sadly, holds his hand, and rubs the pad of his thumb over Dick’s knuckles.

They walk to the bioship in silence. 


End file.
